The Romanov Legacy

by Jenni Wiltz

  “Chivalrous indeed, but don’t you think this time could better be spent in search of—”

  The line went dead. He smiled. In the twenty-four years he’d worked in government circles, he’d never known Vadim Primakov to lose his composure. “It’s your move, old friend.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  July 2012

  San Francisco, California

  Constantine tapped his pocket, where he’d shoved the letters and his translation. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? I don’t want to see you go under again. You scared the hell out of me, Natalie.” His hand smoothed a flyaway hair beside her face and she leaned into his caress. Tucked within the protective circle of his arms, she felt warmer and safer than anywhere else she could possibly be.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Their faces were so close that his lips hovered over hers. She imagined losing herself inside him, becoming a part of his body so that Belial and Vympel wouldn’t know where to find her. “But I came back. I always come back.”

  “What if you don’t? I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I won, didn’t I?”

  His eyes glowed with hunger. “Yes, you did.” Then his lips descended hungrily on hers. Heat surged up from her belly and she pressed her body against his. His hands pulled through her hair, sweeping across her skull. Everywhere he touched her she felt a tingling that pulsed with the same rhythm as the heat in her belly. It was her blood, rushing through her, pounding in her ears and in her core. Deep inside her, something began to twist and ache with pleasure. She arched against him and moaned just as he broke away from her. “We can’t,” he said.

  “But I want you.”

  “God, I want you, too,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear and leaving his hand in place. “But you need to recover. And you deserve so much better than a broom closet. I promise you, we will make time for this later.”

  “But we can’t sleep together if we’re dead, right?” Despite everything, she felt her lips curl into a smile. Even if I die tonight, it will be with him. The thought gave her energy. If they got through this, maybe she’d get to go on a real date, like a normal person. “Let’s do this,” she said. “Let me see the translation again.”

  He pulled it from his pocket. She read it again, but it didn’t make any sense the second time, either. “What am I missing?” Then she stopped. “Are you sure this is all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go back to the originals.”

  Constantine unfolded the two yellowed rectangles and spread them out on the floor. “What are we looking for?”

  “That,” she said, pouncing on Marie’s letter. “What’s that?”

  At the top of the letter, someone with different handwriting had written two brief lines in pencil above the date. Her eyes jumped back to Olga’s letter, the one he hadn’t translated yet. “Look! It’s here, too.” She pointed at two faint lines added to the letter just below the signature. “The added lines are in different places. What do they say?”

  Constantine picked up Marie’s letter and held it closer to his eyes. “It’s so faded, it’s hard to tell. It looks like…oh, Jesus.”

  Natalie reached for his arm. “What is it?”

  “It says ‘Bank of England.’”

  “I knew it!” She giggled and clapped her hands. “I knew those fuckers were lying!”

  He kept squinting, turning the paper slightly. “And there’s a name.”

  “What name?”

  “It’s hard to read. Let me spell it out.” He pressed out a fold in the paper. “In English, it would be S, L, V, E, V. I can’t read all of the letters.”

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. “I think I know what that means.”

  “What—” Suddenly, Constantine’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He reached for it and glanced at the incoming number. “It’s Vadim.”

  Natalie looked up at him. “Do you still trust him?”

  “Right now, you’re the only one I trust.” He put his finger to his lips then put the call on speakerphone. “What the hell is going on, Vadim? Vympel took Viktor and the letters.”

  “I know!” Anger crackled like electricity in Vadim’s voice. “I had to hear about it from Starinov himself! You made me look like a fool!”

  “Did he tell you where they took Viktor?”

  “No. Where are you?”

  Constantine clenched his jaw and Natalie noticed a wavy vein pop out against the flat plane of his forehead.

  Vadim sensed his hesitation. “Listen, my boy, we’re all upset. But Starinov said he won’t recall Vympel until I bring you and the girl in.”

  “If he has the letters, why does he care about us?”

  “Just tell me where you are. The ambassador will send an escort and it will all be over.”

  Something in the older man’s voice set her on edge—a desperation that sent a natural baritone pitch into a tenor. Natalie felt her gut clench. No, she mouthed. Don’t do it.

  “Please,” the older man begged. “We’ll get Viktor back and I’ll make sure they don’t hurt the girl. I swear to you.”

  Constantine held the phone in both hands, squeezed until his knuckles went white.

  “You won’t make it out of the country without help, boy. You know that.”

  Constantine bent his head. “I know,” he said softly. “We’re in the library. Ninth Street.”

  “Thank you, my boy! Just stay where you are.”

  “I’m trusting you, Vadim. With my life and hers.”

  “I know, son.”

  The line went dead and Constantine shoved the phone back in his pocket. Natalie touched his arm. “Why didn’t you tell him we have the real letters?”

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s in his voice.”

  “What happens when the ambassador comes to get us?”

  “He’ll put us on a plane to Russia.”

  “What?” She scooted backward, bumping up against a metal rack. “I’ve never been anywhere, Constantine. I don’t know what Belial will do!”

  He grasped her forearms and looked into her eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. “I promise.” The warmth of his hands seeped into her cold flesh and she resisted the impulse to close her eyes and press her face into his chest. “We’re going to turn these letters over to Vadim and let him fight Starinov over it. End of story.”

  “What about Viktor?”

  “I won’t hand over the letters until Starinov lets him go.”

  Natalie’s gaze fell to the pieces of paper on the floor. “But what if I can figure it out?”

  “No. All they want is the letters.”

  “What happens when they can’t decipher them? Will I get kidnapped again?” The thought of waiting for another Vympel squad to break down her door made her feel sick to her stomach. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’m going to throw up.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said, putting the letters back in his pocket.

  “I don’t need a babysitter. I can hurl on my own.”

  “Fine.” He kissed her on the forehead. “If you’re not back in five minutes, I’m coming in there for you.”

  She nodded and clutched her purse to her chest as she walked out of the closet to the restroom. She wished Beth were here. Beth would calm her down and shoot holes in her theory wide enough for elephants to stomp through. Soloviev—the letters written in pencil must refer to him. He was Maria Rasputin’s husband, a man usually vilified for stealing money and jewels collected to help fund the Romanovs’ escape from captivity. But what if he hadn’t stolen them? What if the jewels and money had ended up somewhere else?

  No one would suspect it, she thought. No one ever has.

  She pushed open the door to the restroom and something hard struck her on the temple. The world went black as Lucifer’s wings.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  July 2012

  San Francisco, California


  While Natalie was in the restroom, Constantine finished his translation of the second letter and re-read it quickly. It made no sense. There was no password, and the girls didn’t even talk about the same things. One wrote to a soldier, the other to a sailor. One referenced America, the other a ship. Nothing was constant except the two penciled-in lines: Bank of England, and SLVOV. If Natalie couldn’t make sense of the girls’ non sequiturs, this whole mission would end with nothing.

  He glanced at his watch. He’d given Natalie five minutes and she’d already been gone ten. “Shit,” he said, folding the letters back into his pocket. Something was wrong.

  He ran down the hall to the women’s bathroom and knocked. “Natalie! It’s time to go.”

  There was no answer.

  “Natalie!” He flung open the door and saw five empty stalls, doors swinging wide. One of the silver faucets dripped like a metronome, but there was no splash of water in the bowl to indicate it had been used recently. He sprinted back out into the hall, dashing from one end of the floor to the other, looking for her purse or signs of a struggle—fallen books, a shoe’s sole marks on the floor. He found nothing.

  Panic exploded in his veins. There was only one person who could have informed on them. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and reached for his phone. As soon as the older man answered, he bellowed into the speaker. “Did you take her?”

  “Constantine, what the devil are you talking about?”

  “I know it was you, Vadim. You’re the only one who knew where we were!”

  Vadim pounced on his use of the past tense, as he’d expected. “Where are you, boy? I told you to wait for the ambassador’s men!”

  “Where are they taking her, Vadim?”

  He could hear his boss shifting uncomfortably in his chair. It creaked beneath his weight, protesting at the new position he’d taken. “I don’t know.”

  “Answer me or I’ll leave right now and you’ll never get those letters.”

  The older man refused to reply.

  “Do you hear this?” he said. He pulled the letters out of his pocket and rustled them next to the phone. “And do you hear this?” Then he took out his small silver lighter and flicked it open, also next to the phone. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, these letters burn the way you will in hell.”

  “Don’t be stupid, boy! They’re bringing her to Starinov. He wants the password.”

  “He won’t get it. Natalie’s only seen one of the letters. I have the other one.”

  Vadim inhaled sharply. “If that’s true, Maxim underestimated you. We all did.”

  Constantine felt his lips curl, a leonine snarl that held no joy or pride in his superior’s praise. “You tell that bastard I’m coming. If they hurt her, I’ll burn the second letter before anyone has a chance to see it.”

  “Think about what you’re doing, boy. You aren’t the only one with something at stake.”

  “But I’m the only one trying to do a goddamn thing about it! Can you help me or not?”

  The air between them crackled with static.

  He curled his fingers into a fist and slammed it into the wall. “Goddamn it, Vadim, I killed for you and lied for you more times than I can count! Now I ask one thing of you and you can’t find a goddamn thing to say.” He shifted tactics, zeroing in on the reasons his boss believed himself different from men like Starinov. “You treated us like a family. And we believed you were different, we all did. None of that has to change, Vadim. But I need help.”

  He heard the movement of Vadim’s left hand, crossing himself. “All right, my boy,” the older man sighed. “There’s a pilot on standby just north of you, waiting for another agent. If you can get to the San Rafael airstrip, the pilot and the plane are yours.”

  “Thank you, Vadim.” Constantine disconnected and dashed down the stairs, out into the street. He jumped in front of the first yellow cab he saw and threw two hundred dollars over the seat. “San Rafael,” he said. “Don’t stop for anything.”

  Chapter Forty

  July 2012

  En route to Moscow, Russia

  This time, her head ached from the outside instead of the inside. The pain radiated from a central point on the left side of her skull and she reached up to touch it. Her fingers slid over a bump as raised and round as the Palatine.

  I’m sorry, little one. Belial tucked his head to his chest and sighed, raising his wings until they tapped her skull. I should have been there to warn you.

  “Asshole,” she mumbled. “Go away.” A wave of sickness crashed over her and she fought it, blinking until her eyes adjusted to the light. She lay on a leather-covered bench, facing the seat back. Above her was a tiny oval window, through which she head the whirr of an engine. She looked briefly at her hand, reassured that Grigori’s ring was still on it. A memory of the library restroom flashed before her eyes and her cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment at how easy a target she’d been. Constantine, she thought. Where is he? Does he know what happened to me?

  She rolled over and saw two men perched on a bench seat across the aisle. They were both dark-haired hulking men with small features squished into faces pockmarked with scars and stubble. Two more men stood at the rear of the plane. One was a gaunt blond and the other had his back to her—a tall, lanky form with thick, dark hair and a broad, familiar shoulder line. “Viktor,” she mumbled.

  At the sound of her voice, he turned around. “You’re awake!” With a wary glance at the other three men, he came to kneel in front of her.

  She searched his face for any signs of harm from the motel attack, but he appeared intact. “What’s happening? Have they hurt you?”

  “Don’t worry about me, lamb.” He reached out to touch her cheek and Belial flapped his left wing—the one closest to Viktor. She flinched at the sudden sharp pain.

  Viktor noticed and drew back his hand. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  “I—I don’t know. I think I need a drink.”

  “I’ll get it.” Viktor went to the blond man standing at the back of the plane. The man opened a panel in the wall, pulled out a bottle of amber liquid, and poured generously into an old-fashioned glass. Viktor brought the glass to her, making sure his fingertips brushed hers. At the moment of contact, Belial’s left foot twitched.

  Natalie winced at the localized pain and Viktor raised an eyebrow at her strange reaction. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening.” Then Belial’s entire left side began to vibrate, knocking painfully against her skull. She downed the Scotch as fast as she could and pressed her hands to her head, waiting for the alcohol to send Belial to sleep. But it didn’t. His movements only grew stronger. She moaned and gritted her teeth against the ache in her skull.

  “What’s wrong?” Viktor asked, leaning over her. “I thought the alcohol helped.”

  The angel’s vibrations intensified, smacking against her skull like a jackhammer. “More,” she whispered. “Hurry.”

  Viktor took the glass from her hand and went to refill it. As soon as he stepped away from her, the pain stopped. It lifted so suddenly that she gasped with surprise. Then she looked up slowly. Belial never did anything by accident.

  Viktor stood at the makeshift bar, dropping two ice cubes into the glass and covering them with a generous pour of Scotch. He had shaved and changed his clothes since the abduction. There were no bruises or black eyes, no scratches or grazes visible on his hands or head. She thought about every time she and Constantine had escaped Vympel—one or both of them bleeding, limping, bruised, broken, or unconscious.

  Do you understand now, little one? Belial said.

  “No.”

  He already told you the truth, but you did not see it.

  “See what?”

  Philby.

  “Philby,” she repeated.

  Viktor looked up from his task, one dark eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t be shy. I’d re
ally like to know what you said.” He moved towards her and handed her the drink, kneeling until he could meet her gaze. His eyes were dark and satisfied. “You’re afraid,” he said. “As well you should be.”

  Oh God, it’s true. It’s been true the whole time. She swallowed thickly, the fear-borne bile in her throat corroding its vulnerable tissue. “Philby…you’re a traitor, too.”

  He tilted his head, as if pondering the statement for the first time. “Traitor? To whom? Not myself, and I’m the only one I care about.”

  She shook her head, trying to work backwards and piece it all together. “But you watched them kill Yuri! They shot at us as we tried to escape. Why would you turn to them after that?”

  “Who says I turned to them after?”

  “You were helping them the whole time?”

  “I was helping myself. There’s quite a difference, lamb chop.” He stood up and shook his head. “I can understand why Constantine never figured it out. He’s frightfully dull. But you…aren’t you supposed to be psychic?”

  “Psychotic, you asshole, not psychic.”

  Viktor lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “To-ma-to, to-mah-to.”

  “You’re making Belial angry. You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, that angel rot is all in your head, love. Stop putting your faith in all the wrong things: Constantine, that ridiculous creature, and a few dead people murdered for crimes against the Russian people. Do you know they called the tsar ‘Nicholas the Bloody’?”

  “It’s better than ‘Viktor the Asshat.’”

  Viktor smiled. “When I find the tsar’s money, I’ll write my own nickname.”

  “You won’t find it.”

  “Why not, love?”

  “Because I won’t help you.”

  “Yes, you will. I’ll kill your sister if you don’t.”

  “You’re lying!” She tossed the glass of scotch at him. He ducked and it crashed against the wall behind him. “I’ll kill you if you touch her!”

  “Oh, we’ve done more than that,” Viktor grinned. “Yakov, show her.”